


tie me to your wrist each night and i'll follow you home

by JannP



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 15:12:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6333946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JannP/pseuds/JannP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The immediate assessment in her gaze lays his struggle bare to her in some way.   Once he opens his eyes, he can see the next few minutes all over her face.  It’s a relief because it isn’t a memory or a death he’s carried on his conscience.  It’s the future, with her and however brief, even if it only spells out her determination to make him leave.  Tag to 4X05, filling a song-prompt of 'Snow in Newark' by Ryan Hemsworth (feat. Dawn Golden.)  Two parts.  Olicity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i just wanna be your shadow

**tie me to your wrist each night and i’ll follow you home**

When he tells them he’s seen things that couldn’t be explained, it isn’t quite that simple.  There are layers of meaning, things he’s felt and fumbled through that shouldn’t have ever happened.  It isn’t just that he couldn’t explain them, it’s that he didn’t know _how_ to and felt as though he shouldn’t try.  His response to shock, or at least confusion, has never been uniform.  Sometimes it’s a curse, shouted into open space.  Sometimes that curse is asking for an answer, demanding something from a world that has never not once yielded something it wasn’t ready to give.

Sometimes it’s a whisper-light thought, a half-hearted prayer or a heart full of gratitude.  His list of things to be grateful for these days is running a bit short, but Felicity has kind of turned everything on its head and now the list is short but his gratitude is infinitely heavier.  If he has a max limit of things he can be thankful for, the shorter list of options just makes him more acutely aware of each one.  In the first moments back from whatever the hell it was they did to bring Sara all the way back, he was hyper aware and completely displaced all at once.  She was the only thing he could actually make sense of or seek out. 

He never thought much about his parents’ relationship, but he wonders if this is what happened to them in some way.  Did they fall in love, find one person to count on, and then everything else sprang to clear, vivacious life?

That’s how it’s been for him.  It’s been a long process.  None of it’s been difficult, though.  The most difficult part was letting go of everything he had to let go of in order to accept what was happening.  Once he let go, falling was easy and completely out of his control.  For the first time since everything, that hasn’t made him uncomfortable.  It only applies to her, though, and the loss of control anywhere else is almost doubly unsettling now.  The only place he can be out of control and safe is with her, in the privacy of their home, because she’s his sanctuary.

He needs that almost desperately after the rapidly devolving mess that was bringing Sara back.  There are the physical symptoms that come and all of them are unusual.  He can’t get warm, has a bit of a headache, and he’s just not steady.  It’s one part exhaustion and two parts almost overwhelmed by everything they’ve done.  Although the physical issues have Felicity, Digg, and Thea alternately looking at him in open concern or at least confusion, it’s the mental side effects that have him reeling.  He told Felicity not a day goes by he doesn’t miss all those he’s lost, and the list is considerable.  Now he can’t _stop_ thinking of them, though, and the memories are coming in painful flashes.  He’s thinking it’s a side effect of what they’ve done.  Laurel seems blind to the consequences of messing with mystical forces, but he’s feeling the full weight of them right now. 

At one point, moving around the ‘secret lair’ (God, they really need to find a better name for this thing) and just trying to clean up a little, he remembers his dad’s death.  It’s like he’s completely disembodied, thrown back into the life raft.  His mom is the only one who knows that exact detail— _knew_ —and the memory naturally fades into her death right in front of him.  He grips the back of the chair Felicity is sitting in and drops his head.  It isn’t quite enough he could kiss her head, as he maybe intended to do, but it’s enough she notices.

“Oliver…” she says, looking back and up at him.  “When is the last time you slept, my love?”

_Nine years ago_ , he thinks without mercy.  It isn’t completely true, but it might as well be if he’s going to start running through the parade of dead friends and family against his will.  He just shakes his head, because that isn’t his problem.  The immediate assessment in her gaze lays his struggle bare to her in some way.   Once he opens his eyes, he can see the next few minutes all over her face.  It’s a relief because it isn’t a memory or a death he’s carried on his conscience.  It’s the future, with her and however brief, even if it only spells out her determination to make him leave.

Those few minutes go fast, just like the rest of the ones that came before did.  His sense of time is warped, which is probably another symptom.  If it’s enough to throw off his proprioception, it falls under the heading of _physical_.  There are a few well-placed clicks as she shuts her computer down.  The chair under his still-tight grip moves as she does, and she slides her hand from his elbow to his fingertips before she somehow replaces the chair with her hand in his.  He’s vaguely aware of issuing his goodbyes to Thea and John, of Felicity doing the same.  He thinks for a second about telling them they should go home, but they’re grown-ups and they know there isn’t anything else to be done tonight in spite of the difficulty they all have of giving it up for the night.  He powered through walking John (the weird one) out, got through his conversation with Thea, and he doesn’t think he could really manage much else by way of conversation or explanation tonight.  As much as he adores them both, and won’t ever use that actual word in his out loud voice, it takes effort to explain those things he’s seen and sometimes done.  They want explanations for tonight but he doesn’t have the energy to give them.

He needs rest.  He needs a break.  The only way he’s going to get it is by following the bossy blonde whose hand is all but tied to his wrist as she hauls him home for absolutely not the first time and definitely not the last.

* * *

 

There’s a shower, but it’s quick and he steps out of it in nothing more than a pair of beat-to-hell sweatpants and his mental fog.  He still can’t get warm, still can’t shake the things he’s seen over the course of the day.  None of it is entirely clear.  No, the only things that have been clear have been the graphic reliving of some of his worst and most desperate moments. 

What was he fighting, killing?  John took care of most of it and he wishes he’d had a little more time to appreciate that for what it was.  Still, maybe it’s best to leave the dead spirit guards to someone a little more well-versed.  Oliver has the dead spirits and being haunted on lock, but he doesn’t know shit about the… underworld? Afterlife?   That’s a little more Constantine’s area of expertise, apparently.  They’ve always been a little light on the details.

The room is mostly dark, lit only by whatever Felicity is reading on her tablet and, more distantly, the cityscape beyond the window.  His eyes are mostly closed and he finds his way to her anyway, uncharacteristically sprawling on his stomach, his legs hanging into space off the side of the bed, and his head finding her stomach even though she has to change her hold on the tablet for him to do so.  He wraps his arms around her loosely and closes his eyes.  Though he’s still miles from sleep, he doesn’t move at all while she sets it aside and pulls the covers over him, cocooning them together in this safe place.  For once, she’s the warmer one.  Maybe he understands what she finds so appealing about his usual temperature.   

“What exactly happened tonight?” She asks in a voice appropriate for their moment, her hand resting on the side of his head and toying with his hair.   

“I don’t know,” he says simply.  It’s a half-assed answer and he knows she 1) deserves better and 2) will demand it.  Probably gently, given the state he’s in.  Still, though.

“You know some of it,” she says.  “Probably more than I do.  I just had to stand there and watch you and Laurel holding hands and _twitching_.  It was weird.  And you know some really interesting people.”

“Says the one who scored a peacock feather.” He turns his face into her tanktop a little more, his mouth nearly against her stomach.  “What else was on that list he gave you?”

“Don’t change the subject, Mister.”  Her words are a little sharp, but her fingers are moving against his scalp.  They’re as much of a reminder as they are a comfort.  He’s not allowed to hide with these thoughts anymore.  She’s his partner and she won’t let him, even if she knows he doesn’t want to live in the past.  He tightens his arms around her and adjusts his head against the flat plane of her stomach, acknowledgement that he heard what she’s saying and what she’s not saying.  That’s when it’s safe for her to ease him in a little.  “He wanted, you know, the usual: unicorn blood, hymens of seven virgins, frozen orange juice concentrate.”  He feels her shift under his cheek, a temporary move that he’s pretty sure was a shrug.  He wants to shake his head at her quick wit, but that would require moving.  Instead, he smiles and it feels a little weird on his face, a little too light for the way the rest of him feels. 

“That explains the smell,” he says quietly.  He lays one of his hands on her side, like if he can just increase the amount of him that’s touching a little more of her, he’ll be able to absorb more comfort.   “Where do you get unicorn blood on short notice?”

“Secret organization,” she says.  Her tone is still relaxed, but her hand in his hair is a little more intent.  When she doesn’t say anything else for a while, he knows what’s coming.  “What’s going on with you?”

“I think it’s just a side effect,” he says.  Those words are easy.  “I don’t really know details of what _he_ does.  I’ve seen things I never really asked for explanations about... when we first came back and we saw Damien Darhk touch that soldier from HIVE and kill him, I knew I was seeing them again but it’s darker somehow.  John Constantine is not exactly a magician, but there are things he’s done that just…”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“We were in a room.  It was circular or continuous.  It was like the main hall in Nanda Parbat, I guess.”  He shivers a little, holds her tight, and that’s the first thing that makes her hand against his hair and his ear stutter.  He’s never cold like that, never shaky.  He knows as her hand falters that’s what’s really freaking her out.  Truth be told, it’s what’s freaking him out, too.

“That place is super creepy,” she agrees.

“It was colder, though.  There was a pit and guards.  We fought them.  Mostly John did.  I didn’t see details, it all happened so fast, but it’s the feeling I can’t… shake.”  He swallows hard.  “We shouldn’t have brought her back.  Laurel didn’t leave us with a choice and I know that, but none of this should’ve happened.  It just feels _wrong_.  And now I can’t stop thinking about…” he trails off uncomfortably.  It isn’t that he wants to keep it from her, but he can’t exactly explain either.

“How wrong the other losses are.”

He nods.  Her words are perfect.  Her steady presence behind him is helpful.  This, talking, is hard.  He doesn’t know how he managed to avoid it for so long, though, because as hard as it is, it’s good.  He closes his eyes, just for a minute, and sees _her_ from Nanda Parbat instead of the other things he’s seen.

“I know I can’t have them back.  We talked about that before.  But…”  He swallows hard.  “I’d still give almost anything.” His voice cuts out.  “My mom.  She knew I wasn’t the same after everything, but she had this hope for me. I wish she could see _you_.”

“Your mom hated me, Oliver,” she protests.  “I told her biggest secret to you as soon as I found out.  I couldn’t _not_.”

He runs his hand over her side.  Of course he remembers that.  Her gentle words, the horrible timing of it all, paled in comparison in some ways, when he had a chance to catch up, to the fact there was someone in his life who was so direct.  It was one of many reasons he fell as hard as he did for her, as messed up as that might sound. “It just feels like it got interrupted.  My life was interrupted and they paid the price for the shortcomings I brought back as this new person.  I couldn’t save them. Since we woke up or whatever the hell we did tonight, I can _feel_ them.  I see them, their last moments, when I close my eyes.  Not just her, but my dad and Tommy, too.  Whatever mystical force we disturbed stirred it all up. I _miss_ them.”

“You need them,” she adds.

This time he does shake his head.  “No, it’s not that.  I watched them die.”  

He’s never actually told her that before.  She knew about his mother, of course.  She knew almost as soon as it happened that he’d watched the whole thing happen.  His mom was the only one who knew he saw his dad shoot himself, though.  He’s never told anyone he and Tommy actually _talked_ , just that he found his best friend in the rubble of CRNI and had to leave him there. 

“You did?”

There’s something in her voice.  He doesn’t know what it is, but he needs it to pull him out of all this stuff.  He realizes how tightly he’s holding her.  It’s a good thing she’s strong because, if she weren’t, he’d probably be cutting off important circulation or something.  He loosens his arms, tries to loosen his own tense muscles.  He does okay at the first, but isn’t successful with the second.  Her hand slips down his neck and he lets out an involuntary sigh.  Her touch isn’t exactly gentle itself, but it’s steady and real and warm.  It’s exactly what he needs to come back from those terrible places, a million miles away from her and the bed and something as domestic as the familiar smell of their laundry detergent. 

(There was an honest-to-God debate about what kind to get when they first stocked their house.  She picked the one with the cartoon arm on the side because it looked like his arm, which means it’s strong.  The memory makes him want to smile.  He’s got other things to wade through first, though.)

“Yeah.  My dad lived when the boat sank.  Obviously, he did if he gave me a notebook and a job and all the things you know about already.  When we realized no one was coming to save us and the food was running low, he shot himself in front of me.  I thought I had _lived_ before that—the parties, the crazy things that happened when we were high.  I didn’t know _anything_.  It was shocking and disorienting, which is saying a lot. His body washed up on the shore after I’d been on Lian Yu so I laid him to rest.  I don’t know which was worse.”

“Where did you find a shovel?” She asks in that faraway voice she gets when her head is running faster than her fingers can search for answers or her mouth can pose questions.  “And really, where would you ever have enough room to do something like that without running into a landmine or something else?  That island is _awful_ and doesn’t have any open space for something like that, unless I missed the cemetery on the Oliver Retrieval Mission of 2013, which is entirely possible.  I was too busy trying not to throw up in my parachute, looking for you, and wondering if we’d find you in a loincloth.”

He can’t help it – he lets out a small laugh.  He turns his head to muffle it, burying his face in her shirt.  Once he’s there, though, he isn’t thinking about his dad or the island or Tommy.  He isn’t thinking of pulling Sara out of the replica of the Lazarus pit. 

There’s just her.  He closes his eyes, surrounded by her touch and inhaling their smell, and that’s all there is for him.  His world is reduced in the moment down to a more manageable size, to a more tangible reality.  He plants a kiss on her tanktop, then moves it out of the way so he can kiss her skin instead. 

He went from drowning in dark obscurity to trying _not_ to imagine the fantasy she might have about him swinging from trees in nothing more than a scrap of clothing.  He might not be shy, but that’s still pushing it.

“A loincloth?” He asks, once he’s shifted and moved to rest on top of her, moving her shirt as he kisses. 

She scoffs.  “Absolutely,” she says.  She dips her head forward and her lips are against his hair.  “You totally pulled it off up here, by the way.”  Her hand moves off him just long enough she can tap the side of her head.  “In case you need any ideas for my next birthday present.”

He looks at her seriously, just for a moment, with a fleeting thought about his best friend who was so good and so uncomplicated.   He wishes Tommy could meet Felicity, as she is to him (Oliver) now.  Oliver wishes more than a lot of things the guy could see _him_ now doing all the things Tommy was starting to do with Laurel—opening up, letting her change the subject and his mood and his life.  

As much as he misses some people who were huge in his life, though, he knows as long as he’s got her he’ll be okay.  She won’t let him be anything but okay and present.

“Thank you,” he says, kissing her softly.  He’s still tired, emotionally spent and he’s sure this conversation isn’t totally over.  It’s okay, though.  They’ll get to it. 

He’s home now, real-time and present tense.

That’s all he needs.    


	2. find me in the sun so bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Felicity counterpoint to the previous chapter. Thank you for taking the time to read and thank you two times if you leave comments. :)

**chapter two :  find me in the sun so bright**

The entire thing is insane.  She’s gotten really good with weird over time, made the switch from things she could quantify to things she can’t even believe she’s seeing.  Still, it’s inexplicable and she’s left grasping for details.  There are few things in life more frustrating to her than not understanding what’s going on.  One of the only things _more_ confusing is how light Oliver is going on details, although she absolutely meant it when she said she was glad his past wasn’t showing up in the form of a beautiful, badass woman.  He’s like a magnet for those and, apparently, has always been.  He’s also a magnet for trouble, so she’s not that comforted by the magician’s reassurances things will ‘probably’ be fine.

She’s slowly built the life she wants over the last six months or so.  It’s been under construction for longer than that, but the last half a year has been cornerstones, capstones, reinforcements, and a new coat of paint.  She and Oliver have built something beautiful, a bright and promising future that looks an awful lot like a pause button on good days.  While she didn’t falter about returning to Star City, because this work is part of the life she wants, too, she’s learned what it’s like to anxiously hold her breath and wait for him to return these days.  She doesn’t like it.  The moments when she isn’t sure if he’s okay have gone from difficult to impossible.  When comms cut out, or he takes a metahuman’s playing card to the arm, or gets stabbed within a few centimeters of paralysis by a rogue cop… that’s hard when she feels as she does for him.  

Waiting while he and Laurel are standing, hands linked and eyes closed, over Sara’s tranq-darted form… there’s not a word for that because she doesn’t understand what’s happening.  She doesn’t know what she expected, exactly, but it definitely reinforced the feeling that a traumatic or uncertain minute lasts an hour and takes a year off your life.  She hopes it’s at least crappy years she’s losing in the several minutes Oliver’s twitching and the lights are going crazy.  He’s holding onto Laurel so tightly what she can see of his forearms has turned white and his feet are shifting imperceptibly, but there’s nothing except deafening silence once John Constantine has pulled their collective consciousness into some other… realm.  Or something.

Yeah, she hates being fuzzy on these kinds of details and she has no idea how the simple list of items he gave her, combined with what she’s going to guess is Sanskrit but she isn’t exactly fluent, is producing the effect.

Oliver and Laurel’s collective gasps as they pulled apart, and the way he stumbled to her and then leaned heavily on her while they figured out if they’d been successful… not comforting.  Though he’s kissing her head and he’s technically standing on his own, his heart is like a hummingbird and he’s cooler to the touch than she’s probably ever felt.  She kind of wants to take him home right away, but he refuses because there are details to attend to, like can you just throw away a dead peacock feather?  That should be okay for the public landfill, right?  Or is it recyclable? Neither of them are one for leaving something unfinished, so they stick around against her better judgement.

There are maybe ten minutes, while he’s walking John back to the elevator and ushering Sara out of the lair with her dad and sister, where he’s mostly normal.  She’s too busy with the aforementioned details to watch him too closely, but other than the quieter room climate, nothing seems off.

There are roughly eight thousand questions coursing through her hippocampus, but she can’t connect them with any part of Oliver to get answers because he isn’t exactly sitting still.  While he almost never does, really, he also doesn’t usually trip over his own shoelaces and that happens twice.  By the time he actually stops for a second, gripping the back of her chair and breathing steadily like he’s _trying_ to breathe steadily, she’s done finishing up.  Everything she’s working on can wait and it kind of seems like he’s barely hanging on – to _what_ isn’t clear.   

“Oliver…” she says, turning so she can watch him with a sharp, practiced side-eye.  His most truthful answers are always in the spaces between his words, the moment when he reacts to her question and hasn’t had time to brush her off yet.  “When is the last time you slept, my love?”

_Because it wasn’t last night_.

It isn’t something she really keeps track of.  Their lives and schedules in Star City are a little more chaotic, but she hasn’t missed the preoccupation or occasional nightmare that keeps him moving.  Sometimes he wakes her up because he’s pacing in the middle of the night, sometimes she hears him get up for a small glass of what’s probably vodka if he _really_ needs to settle himself.  It had all but stopped when they were in suburbia, but he’s backslid slightly.  The last week or so, with all the Sara-Thea-Laurel drama, has been rough.  She thinks he’s having Lian Yu flashbacks again, and maybe flashbacks of taking Thea to Nanda Parbat.  He hasn’t slept much regardless, and it’s bad enough she noticed before now, but not bad enough she’s said anything.  Still, if it’s getting worse, she isn’t just leaving him in that distant and dangerous headspace.  She knows how he gets when he’s miles deep in flashbacks and nightmares and trauma.  Sometimes it gets the better of him and she’s not interested in just leaving him to it, thank you very much.  He’s not alone.

He shakes his head and she’d like to smack him because she actually wanted an answer or some sign he would be receptive to her taking care of him.  Dismissal wasn’t what she was after, but when he doesn’t move she realizes that isn’t exactly what it is.  Maybe a ‘ _not here_ ’?   She nods in response, just a subtle twitch of the head.  As soon as their eyes have met, logging a conversation without words in the brief glance, she begins the process of shutting down the computer.  It doesn’t take long because it was a light day and she was only logged into _one_ illegal spot (the police department’s dispatch) and it’s easy enough to sneak back out without anyone the wiser.

She and Digg have moments full of silent communication, and she doesn’t leave until she’s sure he’s taking care of Thea.  Thea probably needs her brother, but he’s too busy trying to be responsible for everything, and he’s no good to anyone.  He’s dead on his feet, which she can admit is a bad idiom for the particular situation.  Anyway, Digg is pretty much the next step from her brother.  He’s capable and cares for her.  He actually, from what Felicity can gather, has been looking out for Thea while Oliver was gone.  He’s on it and he’s the best person for the difficult job of post-hospital attack recovery.  Thea’s tired glances from Felicity to Oliver and back tell Felicity she should text because Thea is more worried about Oliver than she is herself.  Typical.  Apparently it’s a Queen family trait.

But this time, Oliver just lets Felicity take his hand and follows with heavy footsteps, looking like he can’t meet the glances of anyone else.  Well.  It’s been a long time since she let him get lost in guilt and misplaced responsibility and she isn’t going to let him tonight.

* * *

He’s never in the shower for a long time, so she has to work quick.  She calls Laurel to see if the other woman is experiencing any symptoms after their foray into what-the-hell.  There’s a split second where Felicity considers how, in a lot of situations, it would be weird for her, the present girlfriend, to call the ex-girlfriend and probe for details about a private shared experience between the exes.  It’s a marvel, though, that isn’t weird for them.  It took Felicity and Oliver so long to get together, and so much happened with their team and his personal life in the meantime, that it isn’t weird now.  They’ve all reached different and unique levels of friendship with one another.  She’s not uncomfortable talking to Laurel and doesn’t get the impression Laurel is even surprised to get the phone call.  Laurel says she’s had some rather intense memories of Sara falling off a roof, loaded with arrows, and one unclear memory of seeing Oliver, dressed as the Arrow, running from where Tommy had died.  It’s been hazy, quick flashes, though.  None of the recall has  too long or intense for Laurel, which almost puts Felicity back at square one.  Felicity texts Thea to say  the residents of the loft are home, headed to bed, and then sets her phone aside. She knows Thea is probably exhausted, too, and won’t reply until morning.

She’s digging up whatever she can on John Constantine when the shower turns off, and she can hear Oliver moving around.  He’s moving slowly, with his trademark confidence, but loudly in a way that’s unusual.  Generally, unless doors are closing or water is running, she doesn’t know exactly where in the house he is at any given time.  He usually moves quietly.  It got to the point in their house in Ivy Town that she had to ask him to stop scaring the crap out of her, and he got used to talking as he moved or finding some other signal to help respect her wishes.  These footfalls and drawer slams aren’t subtle signals, they’re signs of his wear and tear, his current lack of attention to detail.  That might be the most worrisome thing yet, but she stays mostly focused on her tablet and the next to nothing she’s able to uncover about the past associate Oliver brought into their lives today.

Fine.  She steals an appreciative glance at him wearing his favorite sweatpants and nothing else.  She may be hunting for information on someone who is very good at being invisible, trying to decode an entirely new mystical language, and worried for the person closest to her – but she is still human.  And even when he’s tired, and it’s mostly dark, he’s still hot and it’s a welcome sight that he’s this comfortable in front of her.

It’s a little less welcome when he drops onto the bed almost unceremoniously and latches onto her and he’s _cold_.  She frowns and sets her tablet aside while she tries to wrap him up.  He never drops like that, so spread out and imprecise.  She’s never the warmer of the two of them.  All of this is new and weird.  She doesn’t know what happened or what’s going on.  She isn’t sure where to start.

Her hands hit him first, because making sure he’s real is always the biggest comfort for her.  Although he wrapped himself around her pretty effectively, his head on her stomach and his arms around her middle, she goes with more contact, her hands on his head.  His hair grew back after his foray into the League and she’s so grateful.  It’s softer now, a nice contrast to all the hard muscle and sharp lines he’s got.

“What exactly happened tonight?” She asks.

“I don’t know,” he replies in a low voice.

She bites her lip.  He knows more than she does and she doesn’t like it much when he’s reluctant to talk.  It adds to her concern he’s retreating to the darker places in his head.  It’s so hard to get him back out of those.  She isn’t letting him go without a fight.

“You know some of it,” she says, careful to keep her tone light.  She’s pushing but she doesn’t want to seem like she’s pushing.  When she pushes, he tends to push back and he’s too tired for that right now.  She needs to coax instead of push.  “Probably more than I do.  I just had to stand there and watch you and Laurel hold hands and twitch and it was weird.”  She thinks briefly to her half-assed research attempt while he was showering.  “You know some really interesting people.”

She can feel his cheek move against the thin tanktop she’s wearing.  Maybe he’s smiling.  He turns his head into her a little, muffling his words.  His tone is still a little amused.  “Says the one who scored a peacock feather.  What else was on that list he gave you?”

Now is not the time to be completely serious if she’s not pushing and she knows it.  She rattles off the first few things she thinks of and couldn’t even repeat it if he asks.  She has no idea what she says because her head is sometimes as random as anything, but she knows she reminds him this is only a temporary sidetrack.  She still wants the deets.

Not the D.  That’s something different and not exactly a priority right now while he’s all  broken and needing her to be his partner.

Plus whatever came out of her mouth made him smile and she’s sure that’s what she felt him do. He makes a joke and she knows she can push a little instead of coax.

“What’s going on with you?”  She asks, her fingers still playing with his soft hair.  It’s barely dry, like maybe he rubbed a towel over it and flipped water all over the mirror like he does.  She doesn’t care.  Right now that means she can smell the lingering scent of the soap he uses.  It’s one more thing that keeps her mind from wandering, keeps her focus on this moment with him.

“I think it’s just a side effect,” he says.  She opens her mouth to protest about that being all he’s giving her, _really?_ , but he continues and she relaxes and lets him.  “I don’t really know details about what John does.  I’ve seen things I never really asked for explanations about.  When we first came back and saw Damien Darhk touch that solider from HIVE and kill him, I knew I was seeing them again but darker somehow.  John Constantine is not exactly a magician, but there are things he’s done that just…”

She’s a little frustrated by his lack of details.  He isn’t indifferent to details and he doesn’t lack curiosity.  How could he have just never asked?

“Yeah, I got that.”

If he’s even surprised she’s getting a little impatient, he doesn’t show it.  He just keeps going.

“We were in a room.  It was circular or continuous.  It was like the main hall in Nanda Parbat, I guess.” He shivers and pulls her closer and her touch falters.  It’s scary, to see this solid man so shaken.  It doesn’t happen all that often and she hates it.

“I hate that place,” she says, holding him tighter.  It’s where she lost him, even for a short time.  “It’s super creepy.”

“It was colder, though.  There was a pit and guards.  We fought them.  Well, mostly John did. I didn’t see details, it all happened so fast.  It’s the feeling I can’t shake.”  He swallows so hard she feels his Adam’s apple move against her.  “We shouldn’t have brought her back.  I know Laurel didn’t leave us with much choice, but none of this should’ve happened.  It just feels _wrong_ and now I can’t stop thinking about…” he trails off and she wants to be frustrated because there’s no way he’s said exactly what’s bothering him, but she fights down the frustration and realizes maybe he’s trying but he can’t find the words.

“How wrong the other losses are,” she offers up.  She knows him better than most anyone and in an instant, she knows what he’s up against, or at least some of it.  He’s been around so much loss, death, and darkness.  The stupid trip to the otherworld took him back there.

She hates this otherworld.  She wants to destroy it somehow.  Is there an app for that?

He hums his agreement but she feels him relax.  As well as she knows him, well enough to know that she’s said or done something helpful, he’s enough of a mystery that she doesn’t know exactly what she did or how it helps.  She needs more details here.

“I know I can’t have them back,” he begins again.  It’s the same choked, small voice he had when they were first talking about all this stuff, how he misses his parents and his childhood best friend.  “We talked about that before.  I’d still give almost anything.”  His voice fades, though, and she has a rare and brief glimpse into his thoughts. _But not that.  Not this._

She just keeps waiting and keeps touching him.  She has a feeling he isn’t done talking yet because he’s still laying attached to her and, even a little relaxed, that won’t change until he’s gotten exactly what he needs.

“My mom.  She knew I wasn’t the same after everything, but she had this hope for me.  I wish she could see _you_.”

He may be baring his soul here a little, open and raw in a way that’s miraculous, but she can’t stop the disbelieving sound that leaves the back of her throat, flying forward to come out half breath and half laughing.  “Your mom hated me, Oliver.  I told her biggest secret to you as soon as I found out and I couldn’t stop myself in spite of her promise it would ruin our friendship.”

Oliver’s grip on her has loosened enough he can run his hand over her side, over the fine structure of ribs and the narrow curve of her side.  She thinks maybe it’s a response, his way of saying he remembers but values that she told him.  At the very least, he doesn’t care how her mom felt about that revelation; he thinks it would be better now if he had three important women alive and present instead of just two.  The realistic part of her isn’t sure, but she can’t bring herself to be glad his mother is dead because of the pain it obviously causes him.  Somewhere in the back of her overactive mind, all she can do is promise if Moira Queen were still alive, she would do her best to find a balance for Oliver’s sake.  Moira would hopefully do the same.  They would have found some sort of common ground.  Maybe that’s too hopeful to think, but it doesn’t matter because it isn’t reality.

Reality is heartbroken in some ways, with his head just above her lap and placing his heart in her hands.  It’s a big responsibility and a good thing she’s careful with the things that matter.

“My life was interrupted and they paid the price for the shortcomings I brought back as this new person from Lian Yu.  I couldn’t save them.  After whatever happened tonight, though, I can _feel_ them.  I see their last moments when I close my eyes.  Not just her, but my dad and Tommy, too.  We disturbed a mystical force and stirred it all up.  I miss them.”

Her heart breaks for him when he’s like this.  He’s lost so much, both through willingly made sacrifice and things that were taken by force.  There’s no way she can bridge those gaps or ease those aches.  He does okay a lot of the time, and he’s doing better as time goes on, but sometimes it catches up with him.  Laurel’s selfishness set him back.  She may need to have a word with the Black Canary about ramifications.

“You need them,” she adds helplessly, trying to fill in his silence with something comforting.  She has no idea what to say, though.  Yes, her dad left her in another lifetime and it sucked.  It isn’t the same as a madman shoving a sword through your mother, at her own request, while you’re tied up.  The things Oliver’s been through… it’s a miracle he’s here and can share any of this with her.  Maybe he’s the mystical force.

He’s shaking his head, though, and it pulls her out of her thoughts and back into the presence.  “No, it’s not that.  I watched them die.”

It takes her a second to realize exactly what he’s saying.  Her eyes fall closed, flashing to the image of a picture of younger, smoother Oliver on his dad’s desk.  At the time, Robert had only been presumed dead (as had Oliver) and his desk stood untouched until Moira or Walter could properly deal with that fallout.  He was so young, his smirking grin devilish in different ways than he was now.  That kid had watched his dad die?  And Tommy?  Tommy had bled out in the wreckage of the CRNI building in Glades.  Oliver definitely wasn’t that kid, but there had been a marked change in him after all that and maybe she had misattributed the significance of it to other things.

“You did?”  

It was all she could think to say and all she could get out considering the renewed strength of his grip on her.  They weren’t what he needed – she was.  She is.  She can do this.  She slides her hands down the taut lines of his neck, touching him firmly and slowly as she dips her fingers between his shoulder blades.  If he were wearing a shirt, she’d be well beneath the neckline.  Neither of them cares.  She just wants it to be complete enough for him to _feel_ her there, waiting, while he’s lost in all this stuff.

“Yeah,” he finally manages.  His voice is a little rougher but not desolate.  Not hopeless.  “My dad lived when the boat sank.  Obviously he did if he gave me a notebook and a job and all the things you know about.” 

Well, now that he points that out, she feels a little stupid.  _How hadn’t she ever considered that before?_

“When we realized no one was coming to save us and the food was running low, he shot himself in front of me.  I thought I had lived before that, the parties and crazy things that happened while we were high, but I didn’t know _anything_ until I watched him die.  It was shocking and disorienting, but he went overboard.  His body washed up on the shore of Lian Yu and I had to deal with it.  I laid him to rest and I couldn’t tell you which was worse.  Today I’ve seen both, felt like I was in both places again.”

God, no wonder everything feels heavy and cold and wrong for him.  That’s a really morbid debate.

She just wants to distract him now.  They have a lifetime to get into this kind of stuff and there’s been enough of it.  She says the first not-serious question that pops into her head to get him out of his, to get him out of the dream world he’s living in because of wherever he’s been.

“Where did you find a shovel?  And really, where would you ever have enough room to do something like that without running into a landmine or something else?  That island is awful and doesn’t have any open space for something like that unless I missed the cemetery on the Oliver Retrieval Mission of 2013, which is entirely possible.  I was busy trying not to throw up in my parachute, looking for you, and wondering if we’d find you in a loincloth.”

Oh.  The last part wasn’t necessarily supposed to an out-loud admission.  He isn’t Tarzan and she isn’t Jane.  Still, though…

Okay, but that train of thought isn’t getting them anywhere tonight.

When she snaps out of it a little, he’s laughing.  His face is buried in her shirt and it’s a small laugh, but it’s there.  She can feel it in more ways than one.

She’s going to go ahead and call this conversation a success.  Shared a little, distracted a lot… it’s about all she could’ve hoped for.  When he’s not laughing, he’s breathing, and then he’s kissing her tanktop.  She sucks in a breath when he moves the fabric and kisses her bare skin.  She also loses her train of thought entirely while he shifts.

“A loincloth?” He asks, his voice low and amused.  Her train of thought, however depraved it was, is _found_.  She’s totally the warm one out of the two of them now with him on top of her, pressed against most of her body.  The covers are a tangled mess, but who really cares?

“Absolutely,” she promises, her voice low and close to him.  While he leaves a roving trail of kisses up her abdomen, moving her shirt as he goes, she bends down and kisses the top of his head.  “You totally pulled it off up here, by the way.”  She gives the side of her head an index finger tap.  “You know, just in case you need any ideas for my next birthday present.”

When his head comes up from her breasts to look at her, she isn’t sure what he’s going to say.  He isn’t prone to joking around or letting his mouth run away as much as she is, even with as profoundly as he’s changed over the last many months.  He looks at her like she’s the sun, though, and he doesn’t have to say anything.  She wouldn’t care.

“Thank you,” is what he goes with and she loves him, she loves him, she _loves_ him.  With him looking at her like that, she’s home.  She doesn’t need anything else and she knows he doesn’t either.  She’s given him everything and she’s getting it back in return.

She doesn’t need to ask him what he’s thanking her for, or if he’s better.  They’re better, together, and even if it all goes to hell again tomorrow – which it probably will at some point—they’re tied together that way and they’ll return to one another at the end of the day.


End file.
